Smokin' and Drinkin' on a Tuesday Night*

Only it's Wednesday.

I just poured a couple of fingers of Crown Royal over gem-shaped ice cubes in a vintage highball glass. There was something inherently amusing about drinking CR over ice cubes shaped like jewels. I also opened up Wicked Ale, because, dammit, I'm a rebel.

I am not normally a mid-week, by-myself drinker. I am more usually a adrenaline-fired, lust-soaked, nerve-seeking drinker. Or a hot afternoon in a best friend's yard, pounding back pineapple juice and rum drinker. Or a hey, look, it's legal to drink mango daiquiris on the street for breakfast in the French Quarter kind of drinker. But I only indulge in the self-absorbed, Tom Waits blasting on the rah-dee-oh sipping of whiskey on certain occasions. This happens to be one of them.

I know in my heart of hearts that I am not cut out for the life of a full-time musician. I am not a good goer-to-bed-at-any-time, I am cranky for three days after a smoke filled bar. But Jesus, I love it. The crowd thrills me, I adore the lights and the gear and the applause. Oh, God, the applause! I love the accolades. The real down side is that when it's all over, I get a little depressed. I mean, not like DT shakes or anything, but the world seems... flat. Muted. The edges aren't as sharp and the middle has no substance. I want to do this all the time. I feel like all the mundane bullshit would just melt away. Three chords and the truth, right?

Anyhow, I'm having an episode with my ex right now, which is probably makes it worse than it is. But I miss the limelight right now, as we speak. I miss people's eyes on me, and them shouting and cheering. Sigh. I won't finish the whiskey or the beer, I swear. I'll just hold them.

*with apologies to Crazy Joe Tritschler. And I don't smoke, but you knew that.